Moonshadow (Book 1 of the Torrent Skies Saga)

Chapter Eight: Words to the Wind

After Fykes disappeared from sight with the horses, Katerin let her tears fall, forcing her ribs to stay as still as possible. She gingerly felt along her side and stopped on a lump over two of her ribs that had a temperature akin to metal glowing in a forge. After she pushed away the thoughts of pain and found her rational senses, she knew her ribs were not broken and her lungs were not punctured. Her wounds would heal. If they ever got a chance to, that was. Her despair did not fade along with her adrenaline, and she sat staring sightless at her hands until Fykes returned some minutes later with a tired and defeated slump to his shoulders.

"I found a good place to camp. Can you walk?"

"Of course I can walk." Her tone was edged with pain and annoyance, and she struggled to get to her feet before giving up and grasping his offered hand.

In one fluid movement, he pulled her arm over his shoulder, then he guided her down a narrow trail off the left side of the road, pausing when her breath came too slowly to her and watching her with a concerned expression.

After a short yet agonizing walk, he released her and she sank down on a log, focusing on her breathing and trying to ignore the agony that accompanied it.

"You should let me look at that before you bind it." He jerked his chin toward her side.

She narrowed her eyes. "What good is looking going to do?"

"Just humor me? I might be able to help," he said, something pleading in his expression.

She took a long moment to focus on everything but her pain. The short trees covering the hillside, the scent of thick mosses and the pungent sap in the evening air. Four days outside of O'siaris, and she had not had nearly enough time to ponder the beauty of this place. Too busy fighting for her life and trying to find enough peace to sleep. She inclined her head. "Fine. You can look... they aren't broken."

He stepped away from the quiet crackle of the fresh fire and sat beside her as she pulled up her shirt, showing the large red and purple lump across her ribs. He reached for her side, but stopped and gave her a curious look.

She held back the roll of her eyes and nodded with as polite of a demeanor as she could manage. He laid his palm across her ribs, cool, calloused skin meeting fire and pain. He closed his eyes and turned his face away from her, and magic rushed across her nerves—cold like the shock of lake water in spring—followed by a soft, warm sensation, like a fine blanket on a winter's night.

The pain in her side vanished, and she heard a strange crackle in her ribs as the bone knit itself together again. She took her first full breath in what felt like a lifetime and blinked at him. He removed his hand and stepped away from her in silence, returning to a dented copper pot he was filling near the fire.

"You're a healer?" Anger overtook the relief in her tone. She was tired of guessing every little detail and getting no answers. Tired of being tired, and afraid. Tired of not having anyone she could trust.

His eyes sparkled with humor. "No. Not a healer, or a holy man."

"Then what..." She trailed off, biting her tongue. "Why not use whatever that was to help Jon?" Her thoughts spun. She understood he was close-lipped, but so close-lipped he was willing to let a friend die? That seemed a terrible thing. Something she had not thought him capable of so far.

He only smiled, turning his attention back to the pot on the fire. "You're tougher than you look."

She groaned at his avoidance, and shot him a sharp glare. Back to the word games, I suppose, she thought. "I don't feel like it." She did not enjoy his technique of ignoring her questions, but at least he was talking again.